Londonstani. Gautam Malkani

good here, let’s just allow it, blud.

      —Allow him to dis ma mum? Wat da fuck’s wrong wid’chyu, pehndu? U turnin into a batty boy wid all a dis let’s-make-peace-n-drink-spunk-lassi shit?

      —No, I mean allow as in, u know, leave it be, blud. He din’t cuss your mum n no fuckin way he ever gonna call no one a Paki no more. Let’s just leave it, blud. Let’s just allow it n get goin wid our shit, innit.

      —Da fuckin gora call’d me a Paki. He cuss’d da colour a my skin n my mama got the same colour skin as me, innit.

      None a us dared argue, an Hardjit’d found a reason to kick the white kid in the face again, an again, an again, this time punctuating the rapid-fire beatin with,— U fuckin gora, u cuss’d my mum, an then adding variations like,— U cuss’d my sister n ma bredren. U cuss’d my dad, my uncle Deepak, u cuss’d my aunty Sheetal, my aunty Meera, ma cousins in Leicester, u cuss’d ma grandad in Jalandhar.

      Hardjit was so fast with his moves that the white boy had hardly got time to scream before the next impact a the man’s foot, fist, elbow. Hardjit’s thuds against the gora’s body an the gora’s head against the concrete playground had a kind a rhythm bout it that you just couldn’t block out. Ravi starts cheering as if Ganguly had just scored six runs an there’d be no saving the gora’s Ben Sherman shirt now. When it was done, stead a knockin the white kid out, Hardjit straightened himself up, took his Tag Heuer out his pocket an put his keys back in it. He could’ve done the same damage even if he’d just used his bare fists. He does four different types a martial arts as well as workin every muscle group, like I said, down the gym, every other day. He says it don’t really matter how many times you go down the gym, you can’t be proper tough less you also have proper fights. It was the same with all his martial arts lessons. There weren’t no point learnin them if he din’t use them in the street or in the playground at least. His favourite martial art that time was kalaripayat, which in case you don’t know was one a the first kindsa martial arts ever to be invented. A big bonus point if you know where it was invented. China? Japan? Tibet? Fuck, no. It’s from India, innit. Chinese an Tibetan kung fu came later. People tend to forget this cos the British banned kalaripayat when they took over India. But now Hardjit’d found out bout it he wouldn’t let no one forget. He reminded the white kid never to call anyone a Paki again before we headed across the playground to the gate where Ravi’d parked the Beemer on the zigzag line. We were stridin slowly a course, so as not to look batty. With the gora gone quiet you could now hear screamin from inside the school. It was the usual voices. Four, maybe five different teachers yellin an shoutin at the usual kids for fuckin around in lessons, resulting in more laughter from the back rows followed by more shoutin from the front. From outside, the place sounded more like a mental home than a school. Lookin at where the sounds were coming from I figured no way any a the teachers would’ve spotted us through a classroom window. Even those that were clean were covered in masking tape cos they’d been broken by cricket balls. The result a special desi spin-bowling probly.

      Nobody said jackshit to nobody in case it took the edge off Hardjit’s warm-up for the proper fight he’d got lined up for tomorrow. But as the four a us got to the Beemer, Ravi remembered he’d left Hardjit’s Schott bomber jacket wrapped round the goalposts in the playground.

      —U fuckin gimp, was all Hardjit said. He weren’t even referring to me for a change but still I volunteered to go get his jacket, even though it meant a spectacularly gimpy fifty-metre trot to the other side a the playground. Not exactly my most greatest idea seeing as how I’d just spent the last twelve months tryin to get upgraded from my former state a dicklessness.

      As I got nearer the goalposts, I watched the white kid wipe his face with his shirt. You hardly ever saw a brown-on-white beatin these days, not round these pinds anyway. It was when all those beatins stopped that Hardjit started hooking up with the Sikh boys who ran Southall whenever they took on the Muslim boys who ran Slough. Hounslow’s more a mix a Sikhs, Muslims an Hindus, you see, so the brown-on-browns tended to just be one-on-ones stead a thirty desis fightin side by side. Whenever those one-on-ones were between a Sikh an a Muslim an whenever the Sikh was Hardjit, people’d come from Southall an Slough just to watch his martial arts moves in action. If you don’t believe me, wait till the big showdown with Tariq Khan he’d got lined up for tomorrow.

      The white kid was now lookin me straight in the eye in a way that made me glad we hadn’t made eye contact while he was being beaten.— What, white boy? I said.— Did you expect me to stop them? Do you think I’m some kind a fuckin fool?

      —Jas, I didn’t call nobody a Paki, he said, coughin.— You know that’s the truth.

      —I don’t know shit, Daniel.

      —I didn’t even say nothing, Jas. Nobody would ever be so stupid as to mess with you lot any more.

      I tried to ignore what he was sayin an the way sayin it had made his lips an tongue start bleedin again. But I couldn’t help noddin. Damn right.

      —Why didn’t you tell them I didn’t say anything, Jas? What’s happened to you over the last year? the gora says before havin another coughin an splutterin fit.— You’ve become like one of those gangsta types you used to hate.

      Damn right.

      —Why didn’t you tell them I didn’t say anything?

      —OK, Daniel, I go,— swear on your mother’s life you din’t call us Pakis.

      —For fuck’s sake, Jas, you know my mother’s dead.

      —So, swear on your mother’s life.

      —But Jas, she’s dead. You came to the funeral.

      I picked up the jacket, turned around an jogged back to the car. Hardjit’d been wise to take it off. He’d worn the jacket during other fights but wanted to be careful with it now cos he’d just got the word ‘Desi’ sewn onto the back. He’d thought bout havin ‘Paki’ sewn on but his mum’d never let him wear it an, anyway, nobody round here ever, ever used that word.

       2

      Most desis had either black, blue or silver Beemers, but Ravi’s was a purply kind a metallic grey. Lilac, I think he said one time. Yeh. He said lilac was his favourite colour a ladies’ underwear an he wanted the outside a the car to match the panties pulled off inside.

      —If she b wearin black thongs dey’d still match da dashboard, he’d said, stroking the BMW’s bonnet before he took us for our first ever ride in it.— But if dey b dem red panties then she a dirrty ho an I’d bounce her ass out ma car, da bitch.

      Greasy sleazebag bullshit merchant or not, you had to hand it to Ravi. His BMW M3 was way phatter than other Beemers you saw round here. Most desi bredren had got the E36 model, but Ravi drove a E46. Slick side gills, wider wheel arches, curved roof an four chrome exhaust pipes stickin out from under the rear skirt. He’d stuck on an even slicker spoiler, alloy hubcaps that kept on spinnin at red traffic lights an matchin lilac windscreen wipers. The inside a the ride was pimped up with rally-car-style seat belts that criss-crossed over your chest, chrome plating over the gearstick an handbrake handles, Sony X-Plod three-way speakers with 220 watts a power an sand-coloured seats that looked lush even though they weren’t leather. He’d even got those neon lights fitted under the chassis that lit up the road underneath. But whereas most rudeboys’d got blue neon lights, Ravi’s were purple to match the car. Purple weren’t an exact match, a course, but he couldn’t find lilac neon lights an only people in Prince videos wore purple panties.

      —Where we meetin Davinder? Ravi goes, tryin to shout down the DMX CD being turned up by his left hand an the engine being revved up by his right foot.— You hear me, blud? Where we meetin Davinder?

      —I already told u, u thick khota: outside Nando’s, innit, goes Hardjit, though without needin to shout cos Ravi eased off with his hand an foot for him.— I also told’chyu we had 2 call Davinder b4 we left dis place,